


If I go (if you ask me to), I'm goin' crazy (Let my darlin' take me there)

by ImberReader



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Implied J/C in the past, Implied abuse in the past, Journey toward healing, Mentions of past underage smoking, Pining, Runaways from foster care, just straight up yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImberReader/pseuds/ImberReader
Summary: On the cusp between spring and summer, Jaime and Brienne say goodbye to a house that was never home.In Winterfell, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	If I go (if you ask me to), I'm goin' crazy (Let my darlin' take me there)

**Author's Note:**

> For my ficversary, I bring you story that I first got idea for over a year ago, back when I didn't know I'd write anything at all for this pair. Story I didn't think I could tackle and do justice even later. But here it is and I think that's a beautiful note to end this year (or maybe an era) on. And maybe start the next one with, if my brain unfucks itself. 
> 
> First and foremost, thank you to V who brought me Gregory Alan Isakov's [If I go, I'm goin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q3gnxO8bUxQ) which is the title and reason behind this story, the heart of it. Much thanks to her, in general, for always encouraging me and supporting me, in fandom things that aren't even hers, and every real and unreal thing. She's the kind little spirit that is behind every story, even without knowing it, just because she's in my life.
> 
> As always, immense thank you to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde) for Betaing this, for Betaing and supporting me through _so much_ , actually, in more ways than I can explain. My stories wouldn't be what they are without her, from the way she inspires me to the way she threatened me into writing, sometimes.
> 
> Also deep and heartfelt thank you to [Nire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nire/pseuds/nire) and Thais, without whom I'd have never written and published my first fic for Braime. Your support has meant the world to me, always. Thank you for giving me universe worth of it. In same vein, thank you to [Aviss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviss/pseuds/Aviss).
> 
> And all my love and my thanks to every writer who has written something that has made my heart spin and trip and lay down dramatically in middle of ocean of feelings, awed me and made me realize things about these characters and myself. There are so many of you, this note would go on forever. But you make this fandom something truly special, because _you_ are.
> 
> As a side note, they're less than year apart in age and both under 18 within this fic.
> 
> EDIT: I realized this is not my ficversary yet, but I guess I am not taking it down, so have this as start of ficversary week or something!

There are two long knocks, a pause and two knocks again on the door.

Jaime bolts upright from where he's been lying on the lumpy mattress, the Knights of Westeros book falling to the side. (He had been flipping through it, half mindlessly, trying to not think of Tyrion as much as he tried to recall his brother's smile. It's faded, like the picture of Goldenhand the Just that peers up at him. Like the value in the Lannister name.)

There are three knocks now, a brief pause that drags out and boils down to one heartbeat all at once, and four more rapid knocks. That's when the mad scramble begins.

It shouldn't be as haphazard as it is - the little he owns (and even less he is going to take with him) is all carefully stowed away and arranged just for this, but as his knees hit the floor with an impact that sends pain through the limbs, it feels frantic.

Jaime removes the floorboard beneath the bed with too much fervor and it creaks, breaking the silence like whiny thunder and he freezes, wondering if lightning won't strike _after_ , this time. Listens and hopes he won't hear any footsteps, fears Brienne's scream spearing through him if she's been caught.

It never comes and he pulls out the bundle wrapped in rags, peels them away to peer into the contents of the plastic bag beneath, just to double check. Spare, clean clothes to shove in his backpack, some non-perishable foods he has squirreled away from the store he works at part time. (Brienne would disapprove, if he told her. But silence let's her look away from that and also from things Jaime wishes she'd at least steal a glance at. Then he could _hope_.)

Finally, he dives as deep as he can beneath the bed and fishes for the tin can in the hole. Cuts his shaking hand a little on the sharp edge when he pulls plastic-wrapped money out of it, but instead of that pain, there's a sting in his heart.

To think he has to keep few paper dragons and stags like this, when Lannisters used to...

He stops midthought, reels his attention to more important things. There have been many things that had been true once. There have been even more things that he had _thought_ to be the truth. He thinks it's what you make it, these days. And he has to make his _now_.

Jaime puts the rags and board back in place, stuffs everything in his bag and moves to take a step, before he backpedals toward the bed and the nightstand beside it, the one that is always leaning away, as if the state of the bed disgusts it and it is any less dingy itself.

He picks up the book (also stolen, from the local library, but no one has even noticed it missing, he's sure) and forces it in the backpack that now won't zip up and hesitates, again. There is a matchbox in the back of the bottom drawer and Jaime knows it'll fizzle in the back of his mind if he leaves it. And it will smolder in his bag if he takes it.

He does it anyway, squishes it in one of the side pockets so it won't get ash and remnants of the photograph all over his stuff, just in case. His twin - them - have left enough marks on him as it is. (And he never did, for her.)

Just a year ago, he would've climbed out through the window, but now there is only searing pain in his right hand that cannot hold his weight and the inevitable loud crash in that direction, so Jaime takes the long road, through the corridor and down the stairs where every floorboard creaks, even when he steps close to the wall where they are less worn, for so many foster kids have used the exact same trick for years now.

But Roose Bolton has not been home for two days, and his wretched son seems to be gone as well. Jaime tries not to think of what Ramsay might be up to or what the Brave lot might attempt to out-trump him in cruelty. He isn't afraid, because he knows the slick warmth of wretched blood already and even the hand they tried to take from him is still strong enough to protect himself or Brienne, but he fears a delay might unravel their plans. (The look she gave him when he asked her to go ahead if he doesn't come to the oak within forty minutes of the signal had branded itself on his heart. _Hers, hers not to abandon_.)

In the end, he exits the house unnoticed. Still, the tension leaves sharper indents in his shoulders than the straps of his backpack as Jaime slips into the garden that has not known maintenance other than some furious and undiscriminate weeding of anything that grows as punishment for the foster kids.

He sees her peer around the oak tree and suddenly, there's no weight to him at all as he runs toward Brienne and then they are sinking to the ground, half to hide behind the bushes and half in relief that vibrates sharply around the edges. (It's just one step, one step that feels like a mile and hums of all the miles taken before it.)

Brienne's face is lit with bright determination, but even it casts shadows and he almosts asks, but later, _later_. Instead, he nods to her unspoken question and stands up.

There is just one good bye to say.

Jaime looks at the evenstar carved into the bark and smiles. This house doesn't get to keep anything more of them, only an indent left by hope they made themselves and then made real. His hand had hurt for days afterward, but each line had been a mark of his angry determination, a reminder that they _can_ want more than they've picked up from carelessly thrown, often rotten scraps.

He had tried to add a lion instead of hearts or their initials next to it, but it had been far too complex and so Jaime had scratched the attempt out, furiously. (He tries not to look at it and think how symbolic it really is. Fails.)

Jaime places his palm over the star, asks for guidance one last time, though he's lucky enough to take his guiding star out of here and follow it into the unknown. (Fear of the unknown has nothing on walking the same patterns within your cage until your feet bleed, until the bone scrapes the dirt.)

Brienne's hand comes cover his own, large and warm, and callused, and he has never felt more _grounded_ than in this moment. He tries to memorize this feeling as he meets her eyes, sees it reflected in the blue that has become the criteria to match up all other shades to in the last year.

And then they're off, weaving their way through the edge of the garden and onto the dirt road leading away. He doesn't look back. Everything he wants is walking right next to him, or ahead of her.

\---

As they travel toward Winterfell, the cusp between spring and summer trickles through their fingers, leaving hot days and balmy afternoons in its wake.

It's not easy, getting by with less money than all the suspicious stares they earn along the way, though they become less frequent once the school year is over.

He half expects Brienne to eventually explain why  _ that  _ evening, why then and not a month later when high school diplomas, as unalike in their grades as the two of them are, would've been crumpled up at bottoms of their bags. But she never does. After all, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

In unspoken agreement, they don't call Catelyn Stark the first week or the next, or any afterward. As if having the Starks coming to pick them up from anywhere else than their front door could make them change their minds.

He had thought it to be anger, red hot and tight around his ribcage, when she had told him Catelyn had recognized her as Selwyn's daughter and offered to help. That she had thanked and accepted the number, without jumping on the chance immediately. For coming back to this house for more than her bag.

And it _had_ been that, in a way. Anger and desperation, and ache. To know she is safe and happy, even if on the other side of the country. Especially then, maybe. Because it had scared him, the campfires growing wild on the barren, littered beach inside of him, though even distraught, the oceans of her eyes could put them out.

It was that night that he had realized. Love meant the difference between anger contained and welts on someone's skin. And he had never been loved.

There is more to discover about love, still, and he has done almost every day since then. But never more than on this trip.

Some days, they both go more hungry than full. (He gives up on convincing her to take his share after the third time, but offers nonetheless.) Some nights, he whistles her lullaby under the open sky and curls up next to her, unable to steal minutes dipped in this peaceful warmth away from himself with sleep.

And yet, Brienne is often bright with cautious happiness these days and sometimes, it blows to this pure joy that he would never grow tired of watching, even if it would render him blind like the sun.

He _does_ almost sneak away to call the number he has memorized as well as she has, in Moat Caitlin, ready to preserve that light even if it means their parting will be colored red with her angry blush. They're hungry and tired, and no one seems to want to give them a chance to haul some boxes around for a few stags. Their post-graduation adventure story isn't holding up much anymore, just like his shoes. 

(He craves a smoke more than he’s craved it since the first month of quitting, but one implied promise broken is bad enough, so he grits his teeth and bears it.)

But when he enters a small family shop, in hopes to borrow a telephone, a different opportunity presents itself in the shape of Pia. His shaggy appearance doesn't deter her from flirting repeatedly, not even when Brienne follows him in and freezes in the doorway before approaching, and in half an hour, they've got an invite to stay for a while at her place, while her parents are visiting her grandmother.

The implication where he's sleeping are quite clear and he hopes his smile doesn't look as acidic as it burns across his lips. There are worse ways his body has been used in the name of love.

And yet, he cannot look at Brienne through the nice (he thinks, he can hardly taste it) dinner, there is sluggishness in him that spreads breath by breath.

Afterward, the hot water of shower feels too much, too much (like it had been over a year ago, when he had been just out of hospital and almost drowning in the bathtub before Brienne hauled him into her arms and back into life) and when doors of Pia's bedroom close behind him, he is numb and logy like his limbs aren't entirely his own. There may be a smile on his lips, Cersei liked when he smiled through everything she gave him, even when there was blood on his teeth.

She gives him one look and frowns. "No, Jaime, no. This... isn't whatever you think it is. I just thought we could have a bit of fun." Pia pushes him out of the room and into the living room, before hurrying off to bring him a blanket and an extra pillow and he just lets it happen, no witty quip in reach where he's hiding away.

"Does she even know?" Pia asks, lingering in the doorway after she's turned out the lights, and his silence in the darkness is an answer. "Well, she should."

"It's better if she doesn't, she won't get as hurt," He won't be as hurt if he doesn't know. The yes or the no and the very sweet, crushing uncertainty in between, or the softness of her lips and the glimpse of the ocean's taste in the sweatdrops on her neck.

"I doubt it protected her tonight," she says before walking upstairs and Jaime stays, sitting in the middle of the couch, buried neck deep in a blanket cozier than any he has known in years. That's where Brienne finds him the next morning.

"Jaime," she calls him as she kneels in front of him and he guesses, by her drawn expression and hand on his shoulder, not for the first time and he tries pull up a smile from the well reserved just for her, but the bucket falls off the hook, and he cannot do anything but lean forward and rest forehead against her shoulder.

"What happened, Jaime? Are you hurt? Did Pia..." she trails off, but he's already shaking his head. "No, nothing happened," he croaks and it grates on his tongue like the lie it is. But there's nothing that he can _define_ or explain. Yet, she understands somehow and takes him to the kitchen, makes sure he drinks the tea and eats the food that he cannot remember later. And then she brings him to her bed and he thinks it to be so warm from her, though it must've been an hour since she got up, and that's where the rest of the day melts away.

When he wakes the next morning, he is crowded in the wall. She's facing him, her hand holding his in the small space between their bodies on the pillow. Jaime lays there watching her and the sun rises in him as it does beyond the windowpane.

He doesn't think he will ever be completely free of the void placed in him, emptiness that Cersei nurtured for it was endless space that sung in echo of all her desires, but in this moment, he knows he _wants_ to build a fence around it, plant trees and little flowers that look brighter for the darkness that lays beyond them.

And that desire, he thinks, is the start to something that may shrink the void some day.

Maybe then, he can tell Brienne that she threw a falling star in the dark and when it wasn't extinguished, he realized there was an edge to it. Maybe then, he can build a home for her laughter, instead of fearing it'll finally break through the sky and escape him. Maybe then...

A million wishes hum softly when Brienne blinks sleepily at him, smiles faintly. He shifts his hand, to free hers, but her fingers tighten just so and he gives up immediately. (It's not like how he used to know it; she doesn't demand him to and the surrender is only for his own indulgence.)

"Looks like sleep did you some good," she says softly and brushes a few curls away from his face and he has to swallow thickly, not from desire for anything more, but the way the warmth and tenderness of her brings a flood of tears pressing against the dams he's determined to uphold.

"Oh Jaime," she murmurs and scoots closer and there are no more dams, just the ocean of her eyes that blur and overflow, in him and through him.

He buries his face in her neck, shakes apart until he's coughing and heaving and is only held together by her arms wrapped around him. Grieves all that could've been, all that has been broken, all that he will never touch with untainted hands, worships regret and guilt and then casts them out.

In their place, he anchors the weight of her hands on his back, the tickle of her hair against his forehead, the soft tremble of her inhale when he pulls back, breathing still uneven.

There's a tear streak on her cheek that he reaches to wipe away, because of course, she's hurting too and he-- But no, he cannot, will not take a new guilt on immediately. (He does, anyway.)

Brienne releases him then, gets up and brings some paper towels from the bathroom for him, because they're saving the tissues in their bags, and he blows his nose again and again. The silence between them should be uncomfortable, somehow, but instead of being embarrassed, he just feels dull and tired, but better for it.

"Fuck, my head hurts," he finally says.

"I'll bring some painkillers and water," she says, already halfway to the doorway and part of Jaime wants her to stay, wants to sink in sleep with her hand in his again, but instead he goes to the bathroom to wash his face.

"What are you going to do?" he asks the reflection that is familiar and unknown all at once, fingers tight around the sink. "What are you going to do?"

And finds the answer.

They leave Moat Caitlin almost a week later, truly rested and with almost-honestly earned food and necessities in their bags, thankful enough to actually plan to keep the promise to let Pia know how everything pans out in Winterfell when they get there. He knows Brienne will want to repay the money Pia has invested in them, if nothing else. Before they depart, their kind host tucks another "tell her" behind his ear, "because otherwise it's really not fair to the rest of us".

This, he cannot promise still, so he only smiles.

When they reach White Harbor, there is a stone in Jaime's chest, all the more heavy and jagged for the knowledge he will try to toss it out soon. He finds them a cheap trashcan of a motel and leaves Brienne to settle in, moves through the streets like the hounded, as if hesitating could mean he never goes through with it, or he just can't wait to get it done. (It's somewhere in the middle)

He stops only on a bridge over White Knife river, the nearest that he could find. The matchbox trembles briefly in his hand, like a flame about to be blown out, but then he presses close to the railing, and the quiver is gone.

Jaime opens it and dumps the content into the river below. He knows that the frail ash will probably never even reach water, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that he's given them burial in the water and the wind. That maybe with time the photograph in his mind will fade, too. That maybe he'll stop asking if it is his fault there's not a shadow of those two smiling children left.

He stays on the bridge for a while longer, thinking about their childhood (because he still can't think of that part of life in singular), about her smile and Tyrion's laughter, about games - the ones that didn't hurt anyone. The good things you're supposed to speak of at funerals. There hadn't been much good said at Tywin's, but he's seen the proper sort on TV.

When the sun sets and he comes back to the hotel, Brienne greets him almost wary, looking him over as if looking for injury. "Are you okay?" she asks, offering him a sandwich as Jaime plops down on the bed next to her. (They'll be sharing again and he doesn't mind in the slightest. Brienne had not complained either, not that she was one to do so.)

"Yeah, I am," he tells her, honestly, and realizes that there had been no splash when that stone had fallen into the river along with the ash, but it's gone nonetheless. There is empty space now, saved for a smile, and he does so, luring one from Brienne in response.

(When they're falling asleep, he presses the kiss to her forehead that has been aching on his lips.)

\---

Winterfell is not as cold and miserable in late summer as he imagined, but it's no dream destination. Still, Jaime tells himself he's glad he won't have to make a home here, because even colorful ads don't bring much life to Wintertown. (What kind of name is that, even?)

It's not a lie that holds up when they're standing in front of a phone booth. They stare at the chipping paint on the door like it holds all answers to questions they don't even know, before Brienne turns to look at him, grabs his hand and pulls him inside.

The booth would barely hold her and the backpack, but with him, quite literally folded into it as well, it becomes absolutely cramped. Still, she finds a way to grab his hand somehow, after she's paid the fee.

"Hello Mrs. Stark? This is Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth. Last year, you extended an offer - I was wondering if it was still open?" She listens and it's her grip that betrays her emotions, not her steady voice. They had discussed what to say, beforehand, but it had not been revibrating around them in a tiny phone booth then, so real and with the possibility to change their lives.

She looks at him, eyes wide and stormy and nods to not keep him in suspense, before continuing: "Thank you, Mrs. Stark. I am currently on the corner between Builderstreet and Ravenroad in Wintertown. And I have brought a friend with me. This is non-negotiable, though I understand if it changes your mind."

Brienne squeezes his hand, jaw set in challenge that rings clear in her voice and he is felled by it, frozen though he should grab the receiver and shout "no, no, I don't matter, forget about me, just please take her in". But he wouldn't even be able to locate it, he can only see her face and think that it almost _glows_ somehow. He is no match for her in this moment, no one is.

"We will stay there, yes. Thank you again." And just like that, the time resumes, but he is still swept up in the river of her determination, not its flow.

"Breathe, Jaime," she tells him, smiling so brightly that he is suckerpunched by the reality of the sun's gravity and the almost tangible heat of her power, and he thaws, inhales deeply and shakily.

It would be so easy to tangle himself further into her and press a kiss to her mouth, a thank you and worship in one, to brand his lips with hers just so he could always remember _I was hers, briefly, brilliantly_. Here, in this space still bobbing along independent of everything beyond it.

And it would be the most unfair thing of all. To ask even more of her, to hurt her if Stark kindness runs thin when they learn just who is her companion, to give her only something so brief and not him whole as she deserves. (But will there ever be more of him?)

So, he pulls them back into the sunlight.

They are holding hands still as they wait for the Starks, strings of tension humming the same tune in both of them, but there is fierceness in Brienne's smile. It runs hot enough to light a kindling in him, not the destructive sort he's grown accustomed to, but a more dangerous one. Because like this, she looks like a knight that will champion for him, no matter the odds. And win.

He still wants to kiss her, like a favor given and taken before the battle, and the way she's looking at him right now, defiance melting into reassurance and warmth, something sparkling he can't define within, when their eyes meet, he can almost believe she wouldn't mind. But there is a world between not minding and melting into his touch like it's home. And no time to find out.

So he presses kiss to her forehead instead, breathes her in and swears it's not the last time, knows more than ever he can't let her go, and then they are ready to face the future. 

Together. 

**Author's Note:**

> It'd not be me, if I thought this was _complete_. Somewhere, in the mountains over there, lurks the story of the before and the after from Brienne's POV. (Healing is non-linear and sometimes it gets worse, before it gets better.)


End file.
